


The Sickness Inside

by Alice88wa



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: All The Bad Stuff, Anal Sex, Bondage, Breathplay, Burning, Dark, Dark John Watson, Dark Sherlock, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, Edgeplay, Gunplay, Hitting, Johnlock Are Bad People, M/M, Oral Sex, Sexual Violence, Smut, all the sex, seriously
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-01
Updated: 2013-06-13
Packaged: 2017-12-13 14:41:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/825466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alice88wa/pseuds/Alice88wa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes had certain expectations for John Watson. Watson hasn't even remotely met them. Sherlock couldn't be happier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first dark fic. This is actually my first fanfic ever. The end of 'A Study in Pink' always struck me so I decided to write a little story about Sherlock and Watson being generally terrible people who manage to find each other and then fuck each other. Kind of AU? If you want?
> 
> This chapter is pretty short because it didn't feel right injecting too much into that relatively short scene. So, try to enjoy. There are more chapters forthcoming, I promise. It will mostly be just smut.

“You're looking for a man probably with a history of military service and nerves of steel...” Sherlock paused, catching sight of John just beyond the police perimeter. He was doing his best to look affable and unassuming and he was clearly succeeding. Sherlock was certain to within a 95% probability that Lestrade didn't even know John was here. Funny, Holmes hadn't noticed just how good the man was at disappearing in plain sight until now, his mind no longer churning obsessively on the case. He watched a constable walk right by John. 30's. Recently single. Liked dogs. Good officer. Dedicated. Yet his eyes slid right over the doctor without even seeing him. What a useful skill. 

It was him. John was the shooter. Sherlock knew it, with that beautiful, perfect slotting together of data that informed everything he laid his eyes on. It could never have been anyone else, had not been anyone else. This man he'd known less than 48 hours had just ended another human being for... him? Interesting. The detective had to know why, had to get closer. He couldn't get enough detail with Lestrade hovering over him like this. Honestly, the man was worse than a jackal sometimes. 

Sherlock conveniently deleted that he had actually started this conversation and fended Lestrade off with practiced ease. They both knew he wasn't in shock but Lestrade only gave a perfunctory argument. Normal people were so easily manipulated when they needed you. Sherlock had always made sure to surround himself with people who needed him in some way or another. The things people would do for you when they thought they depended on you never failed to entertain. Or fascinate, in this case.

Sherlock tossed the ridiculous blanket, not caring if Lestrade saw him or not. Just to let him know he wasn't even worth the effort of appearances.

“Sergeant Donovan's just been explaining everything. Two pills,” John offered as soon as he was in earshot, shaking his head, “Dreadful business, isn't it? Dreadful.”

Observations ticked through his head like grains of sand. No questions about Sherlock's well-being. Pupils dilated. Forced frown. Hands locked behind his back to hide any post-combat tremors.

_Wonderful business, isn't it? Wonderful._

Oh no, he wasn't going to let his funny little doctor off that easy. Sherlock had to push.

“Good shot.” 

Pause. Consider. Deflect.

“Yes. Yes, must have been, through that window.”

“Well, you would know.” 

There it was. Oh, he had made a dreadful mistake. He had mentally written John off; dull, stupid, normal. Wrong. How delightful. Relaxation around the eyes. Lower jaw pushing out. Sherlock began calculating the probability that the good doctor would hit him if he kept talking. Well, he certainly wasn't going to report it. It would spoil all the fun. Surely John could see that. Maybe not.

“Did you get the powder burns out of your fingers? I don't suppose you'd serve time for this, but let's avoid the court case.”

_I know. You know I know. It's our secret now. I won't tell._

It was as close to a thank you as he was willing to offer. He watched the shorter man internalize what he had said, looking around for eavesdroppers. Shoulders relaxing but eyes narrowing. Trying to figure out Sherlock's play. Clever lad. Still, he hadn't actually admitted it. Sherlock needed to hear the words. Needed to see him say the words. He would have to use a dirty tactic, one that Mycroft favored and Holmes despised.

“Are you all right?” Automatic human response, of course, was to assure that they were fine, no matter what the circumstance. John conveniently obliged, giving the detective just enough room pounce.

"Yes, of course I'm all right."

“Well, you have just killed a man.”

Wasn't that intriguing? No hunched shoulders, no guilty lines around the mouth. Sherlock's wording hadn't garnered the usual sort of reaction at all.

“Yes. That's true.” 

That smile. Thin as a razor but for a moment, just a moment, he was standing on the edge of the precipice, staring into the abyss inside Watson. This wasn't shock. This wasn't a man trying to come to grips with his actions. The man standing in front of Sherlock didn't give one whit that he had just taken a human life. No guilt, no what-ifs, not even concern for how Sherlock felt about the whole thing. In fact, the detective could say with fair accuracy that John might have even enjoyed himself a little.

Information tags tumbled through his mind like a key in a lock until the door opened. Cunning. Callous. Charming. Impulsive. Dangerous.

_Psychopath._

Wonderful. God, the irony of Anderson's earlier accusation, getting it so wrong and missing the real psychopath standing right next to him. This changed everything. You never knew what a person like that would do, what they were capable of. Well, that wasn't strictly true. There were all kinds of psychotics out there, some were incredibly dull and predictable. 

But John had friends. People liked him. He knew what things were right to say and what was Not Good. He had managed to keep this part of himself hidden even from Sherlock, for a short time (although he had been admittedly distracted). He obviously had something resembling a personal code, he wasn't completely amoral. He had cultivated that perfect good-natured persona until it became an affixed mask. What would it take to make an actor like that slip? 

No, he wouldn't be letting Dr. John Watson go until he'd split open that mask. Not until he'd stared into the rotten heart of him and scooped out enough to satisfy his needs. He wasn't afraid. He was mesmerized, like a bird in front of a snake. He wondered if John would try to kill him. Wouldn't that be interesting, to be taken apart by a doctor? He could probably make it last a very long time. Sherlock didn't think Watson was that kind of psychotic and even if he was he'd be able to see that coming but maybe not. He could feel it now, a little undercurrent to all his thoughts regarding the good doctor.

_Maybe not. Maybe not. Maybe not. Maybe you aren't in control anymore._

And just like that, the moment was over. Each man having offered a glimpse of himself and not been rejected. What a rush; to know the other felt nothing over a mans death, to know they knew same about you. These were things normal society balked at, emotional deficiencies that couldn't just be medicated away. Only together two days and they'd already managed to kill a man between them. Sherlock wondered what else they would be able to get up to, what dark paths they might pull each other down. They were bad people and they would be bad people together.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes had certain expectations for John Watson. Watson hasn't even remotely met them. Sherlock couldn't be happier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2: Apologies if this chapter is a little 'slow burn' I just ended up having a lot to say and felt I reached a good place to break. I hope you enjoy it! Smut is coming, I promise. It's like 4 am right now so forgive any spelling errors, I'll fix them ASAP.
> 
> Oh, yeah, sorry about the wall o' text that is Sherlock's monologue. It just didn't seem right to break it up.

Sherlock could feel his post-case rush seeping in behind his eyes, making the world lovely and tolerable. Beta-endorphins streaming into his brain from the hypothalamic neurons, binding to the opioid receptors and triggering a massive dump of dopamine into his system. All brought about by his own genius. Realistically speaking, there were things beyond his physical capabilities but right now his body didn't know it. The sweetness of simply being alive, made all the sweeter by having brushed so close to death. Not his own, of course. In terms of personal danger this definitely rated a Dull in his mental archive. That business with the fake gun, how incredibly disappointing. 

But to watch a man die, what a rare and beautiful privilege! An individual, with all their quirks and dreams and dislikes and heartaches painted on the canvas of their bodies, adding up to something unique and truly unrepeatable. Each person their own petty little anomaly. And he had gotten to watch the panic set in, to hear the last words screamed using the last breaths by a man realizing he actually wasn't as ready to die as he thought, to watch that light behind the eyes fade forever. It was intoxicating. A small shame that John had ruined his chance to observe someone kill themselves with poison, that would have been informative. 

Still, the bloody route had its own appeal. He could feel it flavoring his high, like the minute variations in cocaine from different regions. The copper tang of blood was in his throat, making him keenly aware of his own flesh, the shudder of his own heartbeat, the sweat on his skin. This high was going to keep him tightly bound in his body, reveling in the pull of muscles and bone. No catapulting among the stars tonight, distant, cold and god-like. No leaving this hot shell behind to play thin and haunting strains on the violin. A little different than his expectations, but so very acceptable.

Even the disappointment of not being 100% certain he had picked the right pill was just a thin film over the condensed lightening that fizzed inside him. 90% certainty would have to do for now. He would have to bully Lestrade into testing the contents of the pills as soon as possible. The wait time on lab results could be an absolute joke sometimes but having a Detective Inspector's ear was always helpful in bypassing those little annoyances. Imbeciles though they were, he would just have to hope they would label and document everything correctly and not get the two mixed up. How he hated having to depend on the dubious competence of Anderson and his ilk. Any other day he would have stayed to make sure they did it properly, hovering like a crow over so many ants. But that would have meant losing a night with his new project. 

_John._

Sherlock allowed himself to banter with John as they walked together out of the cluster of flashing lights and vehicles. There was Sergeant Donovan on her phone with someone personal. Arm tucked under her elbow, shoulders hunched, defensive posture; she must be lying. Likely telling her fool boyfriend she was working late again tonight. Looks like Anderson's floor was going to get another scrubbing. How long would it take her to die if Sherlock flayed the meat off her bones one piece at time?

He let John call him out on taking the pill. He even let John call him an idiot, which was amusing. He could have described the exact velocity and position of the cabbies hand as he put the bottles on the table. How many times and when he had glanced at each bottle, the fear in his eyes when Sherlock had chosen. He could have told John all this and let him marvel at his genius, call him amazing and brilliant and all those other delightful adjectives. But he didn't. Friends called each other things like idiot and nutter. 

_And we are friends, aren't we, John?_

Sherlock was readying to disgorge his knowledge of what made a good Chinese when Mycroft made his utterly unwelcome appearance. Sherlock had made a fine art of dividing his attention when faced with a threat and Mycroft certainly counted as that. Mycroft was dangerous but in this situation John was even more so. If he slipped, if Mycroft saw what was underneath that benign affectation Sherlock would likely be finding John's corpse in a ditch somewhere within the week. It had happened before. Mycroft had a way of removing the bad people from Sherlock's life and he had no intention of giving up his doctor before he was ready. 

John must have stashed his gun somewhere. He didn't walk like a man with a pistol in his waistband and he was entirely too relaxed to be holding a murder weapon in a crowd of police. He was regretting it now, though, wasn't he? Arms no longer clasped behind his back, they were loose and at his sides as if he longed for a guns reassuring weight in his hand. Other than that mild concession, the blundering, oblivious Dr. Watson stayed firmly in place. How on earth did he do it?

Mycroft didn't even glance at John. Thank god, the arrogant prick was probably so intent on making sure he was impressive it seems he'd missed John's little condition when they first met. People commented so often on Sherlock's ego but to this day it had never blinded him to the truth. He had never let his hubris stop him from getting his hands dirty simply because he was so sure he was right. Quite the opposite. The same could not be said of Mycroft and for that he had earned Sherlock's undying contempt. Letting pride get in the way of vision, it was just so... boring. He could see it on his brother's face, he had gathered up the intelligence he felt he needed on Dr. Watson, come to his _obviously correct_ conclusions and had no interest in pursuing further. Excellent. They would have to try and keep it that way. A thrill-seeking ex-military doctor was a fine, if pedestrian, flatmate for a Holmes man but a genuine psychopath? Even Mycroft had his limits. And, oh, how they limited him. It was a shame Mycroft only had two eyes. Sherlock had such a long list of ways he would like to remove them.

Sherlock terminated the conversation as quickly as he could, hungry to be away and enjoying his well-earned endorphin high. John lagged for a just a moment, doing a little extra work to cement his persona, from what Sherlock could hear. Admirable. It was a calculated risk, letting John interact with Mycroft without him to run interference but John handled it deftly. Sherlock would have to worm out the source of his deception skills as soon as possible. It flowed so naturally, adding touches to the mask here and there, saying all the right things and then disappearing into the crowd. Sherlock could deceive but he could never disappear. He had learned to use his height and unusual appearance as both armor and weapon but it had its disadvantages.

_It must be nice, sometimes, to be mistaken for something completely dull._

Sherlock didn't hail a cab. He wanted to feel his legs moving and the cool night on his face. Right now there was no walk too far back to Baker street. He could probably run all the way there. John fell in step beside him as they bantered again until they were around the corner and out from under Mycroft's direct gaze. You could never avoid the cameras these days but that couldn't be helped. Sherlock stopped John in the nearest flare of lamplight, inspecting him at arms-length.

“What are you doing?” 

“Figuring out where you stashed your gun.” Sherlock told him, enunciating _gun_ just so as he raked over the shorter man. 

“Come off it, you can't tell that just by looking at me,” John laughed and looked away but the shutters went up on his eyes. He didn't like talking about the gun. It was definitely illegal, probably smuggled home from Afghanistan after he was invalided back to England. 

“John, aren't you tired of being wrong yet?” Sherlock let the points of data rush into him, discarding the dross and distilling the answer into pure, exquisite _knowing_.

“Elapsed time between the shooting and our meeting: 1 hour. You said you had a chat with Sergeant Donovan, let's say that took 20 minutes. So, forty minutes to hide the gun and get back with enough time to stand around and look concerned until someone noticed you. You didn't hide it on the grounds, you're too relaxed for that. No, smart man like you, you would have gotten as far away as you could. Not north or west, that's all residential. You wouldn't want to risk some nice child finding it and turning it in to Mummy. South is mostly office buildings, good choice this time of night but you've been scared off by Mycroft, too many cameras down there. So, east it is. You have concrete dust on your boots so you passed that construction on West Hampstead where they've been jack-hammering all day. The construction has blocked the alley behind that row of tourist shops. That's good, means less people blundering through, even the shopkeepers have gone home at this hour. You have a smear of pollen on your left cuff but you have dirt scraped on your right sleeve. You pushed the bin of the flower shop away and stashed the gun as far as you could in the crack between the buildings. Then, I assume, you scurried back just in time to get all the details from the good Sergeant.”

Sherlock finished smugly, watching John's face become more and more incredulous as he went on. The dark look had left his eyes and now he looked more like a child seeing a magic trick for the first time.

“My god, Sherlock, that is incredible, absolutely incredible. I simply can't imagine how you put all that together.”

Sherlock absorbed the praise contentedly, letting it puff up his ego just a little more. He deserved it, after all.

“It's simple, John, if you just know how to see. Good choice, by the way,” he said, moving off into the night.

“Oh? Why's that?” John was all but trotting beside him, trying to keep up with the taller man's strides. Sherlock kept an eye on his path but focused most of his considerable attention on the doctor.

“It's on the way home. No tedious backtracking. I know you're itching to have it back.”

Watson said nothing but frowned to himself. Sherlock didn't need to ask. Gun. Police. Lestrade. 

“Don't worry about Lestrade, he won't be bothering us again tonight. You will have your story straight by tomorrow, won't you?”

John smiled again, that razor smile and for just a moment the mask slipped off. 

“Don't worry, Sherlock, I've got it all sorted.” Like flipping a switch, the muscles around his eyes bunched up, taking on a look of repressed worry. His mouth curved from a cold slash into a subtly self-deprecating pout.

“I stayed behind at the flat, waiting for you to come back. I thought it was odd, you just running off like that but Donovan said it was to be expected. So, I waited, I don't know how long. Then, I saw the computer,” John's breath hitched artfully at the memory as if he was reliving a powerfully frightening moment.

“I saw the phone had moved and I just knew something was wrong. I phoned the police and tried to get there as fast as I could but the construction got us all turned about and by the time it was all sorted and I got there...” John shook his head, face lined with anger both at himself and the cabbie.

“Well, it was all over and the police were already there. I got the whole story from Sergeant Donovan. Just dreadful, really. I'm just... I'm so glad you're okay, Sherlock,”

He said it with a breathy kind of emphasis, both relieved and concerned at the same time. John glanced up at him and away, now with a small, hesitant smile on his face. Like he wasn't sure if Sherlock would laugh at him or not for expressing the sentiment. Sherlock let the silence hang for a beat too long, searching for a crack in the facade. Nothing.

“That's very good,” was all Sherlock said. The urge to push was a physical pain inside him, numbed by the high of closing the case but still there. He would have to wait. Patience was not one of his virtues but the chance to pick John apart was worth it. He mustn't scare him off by pushing too hard or too fast. Sherlock already had several guesses about John's past but he didn't want them confirmed right now. He would have to endure the exquisite tension, dole out the rush in bits and pieces until he had wrung John utterly dry.

The light bulb shut off and all the lines on John's face turned hard and flat. He stared at Sherlock, eyes almost completely black, hollow. Daring him to say something, call him a freak, push him away. Just to give him the opening to hurt Sherlock and John would take it without hesitation. It was a frightening change. It was exhilarating. Sherlock felt his high curl a little tighter. It felt like such a privilege, not a threat, to see into his emptiness like that. To show his emptiness in return without the veneer of arrogance. He could feel the tendrils of partnership reaching out between them, a sensation altogether new and electric to Sherlock. He had occasionally drawn people close to him in the past, either for convenience or to amuse him. Those that Mycroft didn't dispose of were weak, stupid and tiny. Boring. But this was something different. Sherlock wanted to amuse John, to antagonize him, to offer him little gifts of violence just to see how he reacted. Just to watch his mask slip on and off. He could feel John wanting the same. Wanting to push and pull each other, to finally, _finally_ find someone to test their limits with. They would never be intellectual equals but having a willing audience at his side who would kill without hesitation? That could be interesting. It definitely wouldn't be boring.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes had certain expectations for John Watson. Watson hasn't even remotely met them. Sherlock couldn't be happier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go, another chapter. Keep in mind that NOTHING is done right here. Nothing safe or sane in this fic, I'm afraid! 
> 
> This ended up being a lot longer than I intended, as usual, but I'm pretty happy with it. Feel free to leave comments, criticism or point out errors :)
> 
> More to come!

Sherlock let silence rest between them until they reached the dark mouth of the alley. It wasn't a long walk but Sherlock couldn't suppress a flush of gratification that John had gone this far to dispose of the weapon. Most idiots would have panicked and chucked it in the first bin they found but not his doctor. He had thought it out, used his head, hadn't let fear turn him into a stupid animal like the rest of them. But John was like an animal. Sherlock had seen it in his eyes. The savage joy of the kill. 

_A predator, like me._

The shopfronts were quiet and empty, the road construction had cut off traffic completely. Nothing stopped pedestrians from walking here but with no cars on the road normal people would instinctively avoid the street and look for one with more activity. Smart sheep stayed with the flock, after all. It really had been the perfect choice, given the circumstances. John looked him up and down with an exaggerated half-frown like he was trying to decide if he should give Sherlock the satisfaction of making the first move and proving him right. Then he just chuckled and shook his head, ducking into the narrow passage.

Sherlock followed, letting information drift through his warm euphoria. The owner of the deli has a soft spot for stray cats: fish scraps (looks like salmon) and mixed cat hairs around the backdoor. A woman working in the souvenir shop is starting an affair with the bookstore clerk next door based on the migrating pattern of lipstick printed cigarette butts. Quality of the smokes indicates it's probably the owner's wife. The manager of the beauty parlor has a drinking problem: scratches all over the lock face from trying to close up with shaking hands and a habitual, unsteady path worn through the grime towards a small alcove, perfect for ducking out during work for a nip. He couldn't stop the tide but at least now it was muted and soft, reduced from the grating onslaught into something more manageable.

It had been years since he'd really roamed this area, back when things were... rougher. New buildings had replaced the junky old stores entirely, making identical clean little squares against the night. There used to be a lovely antiques shop not far from here, full of oddities he could lose himself in for hours. Convenient, also, that the son of the shopkeeper used the business as a cover to import singularly excellent cocaine. One day the lad simply disappeared. Sherlock had his suspicions.

Sherlock assessed John's back as he hurried ahead; rigid flex of his shoulders betrayed tension, hands tight so he could throw a punch at any moment, head shifting slightly as he scanned for possible witnesses. So very much like an animal, a skittish carnivore Sherlock wanted to lure closer. But softly now, softly, don't want to scare John away. The game was on and it was Sherlock's turn to make the next move. John had shown some of himself, it was only fair to do the same. Every good partnership started with a little give and take.

“A bit different from my day,” he drawled, arranging himself against the back of the flower shop.

Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned back, breathing deeply. At exactly this moment, it was lovely just to savor his ribs stretching tight against his lungs, filling him with night air. Underneath the aroma of dead flowers there was the same London alley smell he had slotted away in his head. Wet pavement, spilled garbage, cigarettes. Some things never changed. The scent opened doors into lovingly archived memories; buying his first hit from a 'friend of a friend', punching a drunk behind a pub, observing a homeless man accidentally overdose on heroine. Next to him John puffed and scraped the skip away from the wall.

“How's that?” John asked, not bothering to keep the annoyance out of his voice. Sherlock could see John in his mind's eye, leaning against the bin, watching him with a scowl that said _care to help?_

“You did it earlier, John, you don't need me now,” Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. John huffed a small, resigned laugh and metal groaned on the pavement again. Sherlock smiled to himself, flesh pulling tight across his teeth.

“Swear this was lighter an hour ago. You were saying?”

“I used to come here, some years back. It's a bit different now, used to be nothing but pubs and junk shops. It was a good place to exercise one's... hobbies.” Sherlock lifted his head away from the brick and regarded John candidly, inviting him to ask.

John had shoved one end of the skip away from the wall, revealing a thin opening. He looked Sherlock up and down, biting his lip like he was trying to figure out what to say without being insulting.

“I'm glad to see you... cleaned up? Made something of yourself?” he offered at last, punctuating each statement with an uncertain bob of his head.

_God, he's trying to be normal. Dull._

Sherlock couldn't stand it. Not now, when the afterglow was crawling in his blood. Not now, when he could still see the dark smears where the cabbie had hemorrhaged on his shoe. Couldn't John feel it? How could he just stand there and pretend the darkness wasn't inside him? Wasn't tearing a hole in him trying to get out? Sherlock knew it was there, he had seen it. Certainly they were beyond this nonsense now. Let John save it for some vapid moron who couldn't see past the end of his own nose.

“You don't have to do that, you know,” Sherlock said quietly, following the lines of John's body as he crouched down and pressed his arm into the gap, looking in with first one eye and then the other to get a glimpse of the gun.

“Do what?” John muttered, grimacing as he repositioned himself to get better leverage. He had to push himself up against the building; must have put it in quite far.

“Fake it. You don't have to put on for me.”

John went still and stared off into the distance, pointedly _not_ looking at Sherlock, before he resumed his groping.

“Damn thing's in tight. I don't know how else to do it, Sherlock. I have to live out there in the _real world_ , with _real people_ ,” John jerked his head back towards the street, back towards _real life_. “I’ve made it work for me. I can't just turn it on and off like a tap.”

“Don't you ever get tired?”

John glanced at him and then away but Sherlock caught the avid gleam in his eyes.

“Yes, I do. Sometimes.”

“Don't you ever get bored?”

“Haven't been bored since I met you.” Sherlock heard the scrape of metal against brick and John grinned triumphantly.

“And before?”

“Before that I was in Afghani- oh for GOD'S SAKE!” John's shout of frustration had just a touch more venom, just a touch more anger than was strictly necessary.

“Slipped?” Sherlock asked mildly.

“Yes and...” John shoved his body hard against the wall for a moment and then relaxed, shaking his head.

“Yeah, I can't reach it.” He pulled his arm out, fiercely slapped off the dirt and peered back into the gap. “I can see it though, god dammit, it's just _barely_ out of my reach.”

John hauled to his feet and looked around.

“The one time that bloody cane would have been useful. If we can just find a bit of wood or something I should be able to -”

Sherlock sighed gustily, cutting him off, and heaved himself off the building. He cherished the sensation of each individual vertebra grinding across the brick.

“Oh, I'll do it. Step aside.”

“Really?”

“Yes, _really_.”

“Sorry, I just didn't think you'd want to get, I dunno, dirty.”

“Well, I don't know about you but I don't fancy spending the rest of my night watching you fail to retrieve a _murder_ weapon from a _public_ alley when I could be having perfectly good dim sum instead. Now get out of my way.”

Sherlock noted John's teeth gritting, jaw working. The strain around his eyes vanished and his mouth became a grim line. His vision was turned inward but Sherlock knew what he was thinking. Of course he knew. He could almost taste the doctors desire to hurt him. Sherlock wondered what John was weighing behind his eyes. Feasibility of success? Probability of going to jail? The advantages of a living Sherlock over a dead one? Whether to strangle him with bare hands or his scarf?

_I might not even resist._

Whatever conclusion he came to must have been in Sherlock’s favor because John smiled tightly and stepped aside, shaking his head. Sherlock smirked and threw back his coattails with an artful flourish before crouching. John just rolled his eyes. Inside, Sherlock was annoyed. That wasn't how this conversation was supposed to go. This was supposed to be about him, not needling John about his condition. There would be time for that later.

Sherlock eyed the filthy ground dubiously and gave a long-suffering sigh before kneeling. His cleaners had gotten out far worse than a bit of dirt, anyways. He tugged off his scarf and stuffed it into a coat pocket. The trousers were unavoidable but he would cook Mycroft dinner before he risked his scarf getting snagged all over this rough brick. 

Time to set the bait. Sherlock turned his head over his shoulder but kept his gaze down, studying the ground.

“I apologize, John. I just... wanted you to know. About me. I hope it doesn't bother you.” 

Sherlock looked up at John then, leveraging the full weight of his voice and eyes behind the statement. In time John would learn how much an apology from Sherlock meant but until then he would use it to his full advantage. John wasn't the only one who could fake it. Just a little white lie to get them back on track.

“No - Sherlock, honestly. It doesn't matter to me what you used to get up to. I was just surprised, back at the flat.”

“Surprised?”

Sherlock glanced into the cleft, seeing the problem at once. Browning L9A1, standard British Army issue. Cleaned regularly but lacking the kind of wear pattern one would expect from frequent use. Ritually cleaned then, as a way to relax. Common among ex-military. It had fallen with the muzzle pointing straight up, leaning against the wall of the narrow cut. If he got just one good finger on it, he could drag it forwards. It was quite a ways back, farther than John's supposed 'just out of reach'. No use in complaining about that now, Sherlock could get it himself. Probably. 

“Well, you just don't seem like the type who...”

“Who what?” Sherlock's arm, thinner than John's, was still squeezed tight between the two walls.

“You don't seem like the kind of bloke that would want to slow himself down. You know, muddle things up.”

Sherlock laughed, genuinely, because John was so right. He just didn't understand. Well, god only knows what the man was thinking he got up to. Probably heroine or pills or some equally uninspiring waste of time. Not that Sherlock hadn't done some experiments, of course.

“Don't misunderstand, John. I have – had very singular tastes. My vice was always cocaine. Just that. Intravenous. And cigarettes. ” Sherlock added as an afterthought. 

With a bit of work he had managed to squirm his arm out to its full length. He could sense the very tip of his middle finger brush the butt. Almost. He shifted a bit nearer, so that his chest was pressed tight against the building. 

“Why?”

“Earlier, I failed to note that Harry was your sister, right?”

John said nothing but Sherlock couldn't spare a look his way. He felt the barest catch on the casing. Sherlock stretched his hand until it wavered, the tendons straining pleasantly under the skin.

“I told you, there's always something. I always miss something. A little detail, usually insignificant, but still there. When I'm on, though, when I'm _sharp_...” Sherlock tried to fight down the jagged stab of nostalgia, “I don't miss. _Anything_. I didn't even need to go to the crime scene. Lestrade could show me the photos and I just knew. I _knew_. Can you imagine what it's like to never be wrong?”

“Why did you stop?” 

Sherlock appreciated the absolute lack of disdain in John's voice. He didn't have patience for anyone who sneered at his habits, having never tried it themselves. Instead John sounded morbidly fascinated. Fascination was good. 

“Why do you think? It is a drug. Addictive, physically and mentally. It started giving me some... trouble.”

He was so close, if he could just reach a little further he would have it. His nail scraped along the grooved surface, making it shiver under his hand, just a bit closer. 

“Trouble?”

“Oh, you know how it goes. It's just thrills, at first. Getting my kicks, as you said. One thing leads to another and suddenly everyday life is so dull without it, you can't function knowing what you _could_ be like. It can become amazingly expensive. You end up doing things. Things that _normal_ society seems to find offensive. Things that are informative but... Well, let's say 'frowned on'.” 

“Is that so? Like what?” Oh yes, that was definitely the tone of lurid interest.

“Oh, come on, John. Use your imagination. All kinds of things. You think this is my first time in an alley on my knees ?”

Sherlock tried to keep his tone casual but this was getting dangerously close to exposure, offering John the spike right where it could hurt most. It felt alien to offer this piece of himself, to reveal without pride, not to shock or horrify but for the sake of connection. Sherlock had let people in before, into little corners of himself that he had designated for their containment. Let them feel special, let them claim a small facet of him and believe that gave them claim to the rest. He understood the art of revelation as a means to control another. This was something different.

Sherlock could push John around, he had observed that from first moment they met. But this evening, when he discovered what John really was, he realized John was _allowing_ it. Underneath the mask, he didn't need Sherlock's attention or approval. Sherlock didn't control him. He was just a wolf who liked what he saw, liked what Sherlock could offer and wanted more. He would follow as long as he was kept sated. And Sherlock intended to do just that. 

There was so much potential between them. There was so much enticing uncertainty there. Perhaps they would consume each other, burn out gloriously as they pushed still harder and harder. Perhaps John would get tired and leave, not when Sherlock was finished with him but whenever he was finished with Sherlock. That would be altogether new. Fear was the wrong word for how that idea made him feel. Unsettled, perhaps. A little out of control. He wanted to draw John close but couldn't be sure where the line was or what would happen if he crossed it. Was this how John felt earlier? Dying to share but repelled by that hideous awareness of his own defects? What a novel sensation. 

The pistol ground another fraction of an inch nearer but his finger kept slipping. The roughness of the concrete was holding it firmly in place. Sherlock would have to try something else. He realized John had gone silent.

It was almost nothing at all. A hint of warmth, the ghost of knuckles across the back of his neck. Sherlock's scalp prickled. Vulnerability thrummed through him, the menace of his position coming home all at once. He was trapped, physically trapped, and he'd stepped right into it. Had John arranged this on purpose? No, no, John wasn't that clever. He was just a talented opportunist. Sherlock had turned his back on an unknown, given it an opening and it had pounced on him. Apparently his little doctor wasn't as skittish as he thought.

He clawed harder. The gun was rocking steadily now, if he could just get one finger in the trigger guard, he could pull it towards him.

He felt the heat of John on his back, crowding his personal space just enough. Just enough that he had only to press down with his knees and Sherlock would be truly pinned. Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes, leaning his cheek against the cold brick. He couldn't keep the smile away from the corners of his mouth. 

_Oh, this is fun._

Nearly. The hard line of the guard grazed his hand but he was too slow to hook it. So close.

A steady hand pushed into his hair, rubbing dark curls gently between thumb and fingers. If John gripped hard, he could smash Sherlock's face against the corner of the shop easily. This building was fairly new, less than 3 years old going by the architecture. The edges were still quite sharp, unworn by the constant London drizzle. He could try to fight back but with only one free arm, on his knees, the chances of successfully fending off an attack before his skull broke were doubtful. It would be tremendously bloody.

But the hand was so soft, stroking through the locks, running along the shell of his ear.

There! Sherlock's eyes snapped open.

“I've got it.”

John's warmth dropped away instantly, fingertips leaving a phantom brush down his spine. Sherlock extracted his arm, careful not to brush the trigger and turned on his knees. The Browning was heavy, obviously fully loaded except for that single spent bullet. The safety was on. How considerate. He turned it over in his hands, feeling the weight. Sherlock looked up at John. How much did he remember of his trauma in Afghanistan? Did the wound still ache or was it numb? Had he almost bled to death? How long would he live if Sherlock shot him in the gut? 

John was watching Sherlock like one would watch a strange dog. Hackles not _quite_ raised but ready to fight. Sherlock was the unknown now and he had power in his hands. He could do anything. Boring. Intimidation wasn't his mood tonight. He wanted to let John in, show John he trusted him. The fever twisting around his spine wanted something as well, an outlet. Something a little more physical than Sherlock usually went for.

He lifted the gun up with both hands, offering it to the doctor like a gift. John took it immediately, confidently. Sherlock avidly followed his fingers as they inspected the weapon, checking for scratches, ejecting the magazine, pulling the slide back. He ran his finger neatly in the open chamber, checking for an errant round before clicking the slide back into place. The motions were fluid, intimate, self-assured. This was a man handling something precious but familiar. 

John silently finished his check and seated the magazine with a forceful snap Sherlock felt in his teeth. John went still, palm still pressed against the butt of the gun, finally taking his eyes off the Browning and regarding Sherlock as if he had never seen anything quite like the detective. It was curiosity, wonder and hunger all at once. He stayed kneeling, hands on his knees, making no move to get up or challenge John in any way. Sherlock could see, out of the corner of his eye, John's index finger absently caressing the safety.

For a long moment John just looked, really _looked_ at Sherlock. Not the eviscerating look that Mycroft used whenever they met, it was the frank and open appreciation of someone who takes what they see at face value because they know nothing is being held back. It's not an expression Sherlock is used to seeing. The sensation of exposure shuddered through him again, visceral and unfamiliar. John might not be a genius but there had to be signs even he couldn't miss. Sherlock knew his skin was flushed, he could feel the warmth rolling off his cheeks and neck. Eyes wide and glossy, pupils dilated, mouth just slightly parted. He probably looked like he was high right now. He felt like it. But this was so much better than any drug. 

_Please, I want it. I want it._

“Sounds like you've seen a bit of trouble yourself,” John's voice trembled huskily but his body remained ready and still. Poised for combat. 

“Nothing I couldn't handle. Dealers have such childish minds. There's only two things they want: money or a quick -” 

Sherlock had been applauding himself on keeping his tone even and dismissive until he caught the flick of the safety going off. A hard surge of borderline erotic fear forced his throat closed and he could not continue. John's expression didn't waver.

“A quick what, Sherlock?” Sherlock's gut twisted sharply at the harsh drag of his name between John's teeth.

He swallowed several times, trying to get his voice back. John made no move to hurry him, intently following the clenching jerk of his adam's apple, letting him struggle to rasp the words out.

“Whatever they wanted. A quick blow, a fuck. Anything.” 

John's finger tucked around the trigger, not quite touching it. He didn't look like he was in a trance, no, just the opposite. There was a frightening lucidity in his eyes as he calmly extended his arm and rested the muzzle on the shallow vee at the base of Sherlock's neck. The metal pressed against his larynx, evoking a slight but pointed choking sensation. Sherlock swallowed again, just to feel more of the scraping constriction. 

“So, that's how you got your kicks?”

“It _was_.”

The cold line of the barrel crept up his throat and pushed ever so slightly on Sherlock's chin. Only the slightest pressure brought on the animalistic urgency to have it _away_ , making Sherlock tip his head back sharply. There was no logic to it, pure instinct took hold of his muscles and pulled him back. As if turning his face just right, as if simply keeping the gun from pointing directly at him would somehow keep him safe if John pulled the trigger. 

“And how about now?” The hoarse words were almost inaudible.

“I'm trying to work that out, at the moment.”

The adrenaline coursing through him wrenched every sense painfully wide, searing the moment into his brain. His knees were starting to ache, little pebbles and damp digging into the flesh. Decaying flowers, sweet and rotten, so strong it hurt his nose. A pity, Sherlock wanted just a bit of John's scent, at just this moment, to hold with him afterward. He probably smelled like sweat and leather and musk. John was breathing thickly, tendons under his ear bunching and rolling. His eyes were solid black now, shiny and empty. John was a shark tasting blood in the water. 

Sherlock felt the call of the void, the same sensation that tugged at him every time he stood on a rooftop or bridge. The impulse to jump. To fly for just a moment. He dropped his chin, letting the barrel slide over his jaw and rest against his mouth. It was so wrong, every animal fiber of his body screamed at having the gun so directly in his face. His mind had never been so clear. He could detect the very faintest traces of gunpowder still lingering on the metal. Nitroglycerin, sawdust, graphite.

Sherlock gave the muzzle the lightest brush with his lips, just a single feather soft kiss. 

“Jesus.” John's moan sounded wholly involuntary. 

Sherlock didn't keep the little grin off his face. He knew he'd had it right back at Angelo's. Now, what did he remember from the good old days? It had been years since he was last on his knees but he hadn't deleted any of it. Pleasure was a weapon, sometimes the ultimate weapon and Sherlock never willingly let go of ammunition once he'd seized it. But this, this was something different from those tedious encounters which had only served to feed his own habit or pacify a useful tool. He'd certainly never felt this searing avarice, burning him from the inside out. The hunger for the unknown. 

He swiped his tongue over the barrel, ignoring the bitter taste of gun oil and focusing everything on John's far more stimulating reactions. Shallow, hard breaths were heaving out of him, lower lip grinding between his teeth, his expression almost, _almost_ one of pain. Sherlock increased the vigor of his strokes, licking and kissing along the length and underside. He was starting to pant openly, just letting himself _feel_. Sherlock pulled back, boring his gaze into John's and dropped his voice to its deepest register. The city boys had always loved that.

“John.”

John's finger tightened ever so incrementally on the trigger and Sherlock shivered at the wave of atavistic pleasure that pulsed through him. He needed more.

Sherlock surged forward, taking the length of the slide into his mouth until his chin hit the trigger guard. John growled, deep and rough in his throat, palming the bulge straining in his pants. Yes, he wanted more of that. The sight was scraping against his soft-palate exquisitely, his jaw stretched wide enough to twinge. He would probably start to drool soon, like some wanton young thing, desperate for a cock, any cock in his mouth. Sherlock Holmes, always in control, always so arrogant and cold but not tonight. Tonight there was a hot wire writhing in his flesh, pulling him down among the dogs.

He hollowed his cheeks, suckling the barrel with obscene sounds. He should be embarrassed. He should be disgusted. Instead, he just felt vivid and greedy and human. He bobbed minutely, letting the gun pull out just a fraction of an inch before pulling it back in. The urgency to let go was a physical pain, tearing needy whines from him. He looked up at John, pleading with his eyes, willing him to understand Sherlock's unspoken need.

Whether John's own desire happened to coincide or he read the supplication on Sherlock's face, John gave him what he wanted. Although not, delightfully, in the way Sherlock expected. John pulled the Browning out between his swollen lips and rested it against his forehead. He could feel a little smear of saliva go cold against the skin. 

“Give me a show,” John's voice grated but it held some of the iron force Sherlock imagined from his years in uniform. “I want to watch you fuck that pretty hand of yours. Show me what your fingers can do.”

Sherlock hesitated for just a second, thoughts derailed from the blow job he had been expecting to give. No one had ever asked for this. Always on the bottom, no one ever concerned themselves with his pleasure, he himself had never been particularly interested in anything other than the ends. He could do it, oh god, the firm pulse in his groin told him he could do it. But he paused a moment too long and felt, more than he heard, the click of the hammer being pulled back.

“I won't ask again.” Sherlock believed him.

His hands jumped to his waist, working ahead of his brain for the first time, frantically unmooring buttons and spreading the soft fabric. Logically, he knew the gun was no more dangerous than it had been a second ago but the ratcheting snap echoed in his head. It was the final push he needed, sparking the inferno inside him. Sherlock gripped the heavy flesh, smearing the moisture gathered at the tip as best he could before he thrust into his palm, fast and shallow. 

The pressure on his temple withdrew and the muzzle tapped against his bottom lip. He opened immediately, letting the cold shaft slide over his tongue once more. It felt like salvation. He stroked harder, twisting and squeezing his painfully sensitive cock.

There was nothing gentle in the way John began to fuck his mouth. The barrel slammed into the back of his throat and pulled animal groans out of him. The gun rasped and scraped unexpectedly across his molars with every misjudged thrust, but John's finger never wavered. A hectic red blush tinted John's skin and he was bearing his teeth around hissing gasps. His face was a mix of terrifying lucid rage and agonizing desire.

The unforgiving metal pushed deep, blocked his airway and Sherlock's hips jerked wildly as he tried to draw in air. His lips and chin and cheek were cold with saliva and unwilling tears. John held it there for a long moment, watching him choke and swallow vainly. He could pull his head back, get just enough space to snatch a breath but he wouldn't. He didn't want to. The rest of the world began to fall away, finally, _finally_. There was just this, just him and John, the gun and his hand, spiraling faster and faster towards the abyss.

Sherlock wondered if John was going to pull the trigger just as he finished. At 350 meters per second he wouldn't even feel the end, he would simply cease to be, all in a moment. Finally it would be quiet. Everything would just _be quiet_.

That thought, the fear and ecstasy and perfect helplessness sent Sherlock over the edge. 

Spasms of release rocked him, his whole body shuddering under the weight of his orgasm. He clenched his lips hard around the barrel, desperate for an anchor as the waves pulsed through him. Years and years of disdain and loneliness and control peeled off, leaving him stripped raw. Sherlock forced his eyes wide, wanting John to see every second of bliss and hurt. He tugged his cock all the way through, milking out the last of his semen into his hand. He only knew he could breathe again because of the sobbing whimpers tearing his lungs.

Sherlock let the barrel slide loose from his lips, utterly spent, wanting nothing more than to slump forward and catch his breath for a moment. He didn't try to clean himself up, he couldn't. His arms were heavy, hands loose and uncooperative. His neck and jaw ached dully. Still, underneath it all was a bone-deep relief he hadn't felt in years. He felt free, completely free and light and invincible. When he finally stopped wheezing, he looked up. 

John was holding the Browning loosely at his side as if he had forgotten about it. The safety was back on but he made no move to put it away. Instead he tapped it restlessly against his thigh, movements jittery and tense. He seemed to be waiting, ravenous for something he couldn't articulate. He wasn't sated yet; if the strain in his trousers wasn't enough, there was a hard glare of fury still lurking around his eyes and mouth. Sherlock reached clumsily for John's zipper, ready to give him what he so obviously needed. 

“Don't touch me,” John hissed, sounding more pained than angry. He drew back the pistol in a white-knuckled grip, and slammed it home across Sherlock's cheekbone. 

A white starburst exploded in his skull. The sting and surprise were just enough to send one last kick of electricity through him, wringing out the bitter remains of his climax. Reality snapped back just as quickly and Sherlock found that he had fallen against the wall behind him. Or been thrown back by the hard crack to his face. 

Sherlock raised a wonderfully shaky hand to the wound. The bone was intact, just a little trickle of blood where the butt had nicked him. It was going to bruise spectacularly. John was panting heavily but the gleam in his eye was now entirely satisfied. John reached out to him.

Sherlock froze but apparently that final burst of violence had exhausted the doctor because he merely held out his hand until Sherlock grasped it and struggled to his feet. Sherlock tucked himself away, buttoned up, scraped his hand on the building corner to get it somewhat cleaner. Clean was a relative term at the moment. He tried to re-engage his higher thought processes but it seemed like such an effort. John leaned close, brushing his hard flesh perversely against Sherlock's thigh before snaking a hand into the detective's pocket and pulled out his scarf. He used it to wipe the saliva off his gun and gently cleaned Sherlock's cheeks and chin. John tucked the weapon at the small of his back and threw the soiled cloth into Sherlock's hands before moving off without a backwards glance. Sherlock was left to straggle along behind him on aching knees, trying to regain some semblance of coordination in his body.

 

That was the first time John hit him.


End file.
